This was the first novel that Sydney Schiff published under his pseudonym of Stephen Hudson. This decision may have been because his uncle was still alive, and would have been offended if he had read this short story. He was not to die until November, 1918.
There is an additional sad irony: this short story was published in 1916. 'Percy' did not in fact die until the following year, on 9th April, 1917. This must have caused some anguish to Sydney Schiff. It is however possible that 'Percy' on this occasion referred to his cousin Martin Noel Schiff, who died on 17th June, 1916, but this seems unlikely. Elsewhere he is referred to as 'percy', and he was seen by Sir Ernest Schiff as his heir, by-passing his father Ernest Wilton Schiff.
I. MR. REISS'S FINAL GRIEVANCE
Mr. Adolf Reiss, merchant, sits alone on
a gloomy December afternoon. He gazes into the fire with jaundiced eyes
reflecting on his grievance against Life. The room is furnished expensively but
arranged without taste, and it completely lacks home atmosphere. Mr. Reiss's
room is, like himself, uncomfortable. The walls are covered with pictures, but
their effect is unpleasing; perhaps this is because they were bought by him as
reputed bargains, sometimes at forced sales of bankrupt acquaintances.
Making and thinking about money has not
left Mr. Reiss time to consider comfort, but for Art, in the form of pictures
and other saleable commodities, he has a certain respect. Such things if bought
judiciously have been known to increase in value in the most extraordinary
manner, and as this generally happens long after their creators are dead, he
leaves living artists severely alone. The essence of successful speculation is
to limit your liability.
Mr. Reiss is a short, stoutish, ungainly
man past seventy, and he suffers from chronic indigestion. He is one of those
people of whom it is difficult to believe that they ever were young.
But it is not on account of these
disadvantages that Mr. Reiss considers himself ill treated by Fate. It is
because since the War he regards himself as a ruined man. Half his fortune
remains; but Mr. Reiss, though he hates the rich, despises the merely well-off.
Of a man whose income would generally be considered wealth he says, "Bah!
He hasn't a penny." Below this level every one is "a pauper";
now he rather envies such pitiable people because "they've got nothing to
lose." His philosophy of life is simple to grasp, and he can never
understand why so many people refuse to accept it. If they did, he thinks that
the world would not be such an unpleasant place to live in. Life in his opinion
is simply a fight for money. All the trouble in the world is caused by the want
of it, all the happiness man requires can be purchased with it. Those who think
the contrary are fools, and if they go to the length of professing indifference
to money they are "humbugs."
"Humbug" and "Bunkum"
are favourite words of his. He generally dismisses remarks and stops discussion
by the use of either or both. His solitary term of praise is the word
"respectable" and he uses it sparingly, being as far as he can
conscientiously go in approval of any one; he thus eulogizes those who live
within their means and have never been known to be hard up. People who are hard
up are "wasters." No one has any business to be hard up;
"respectable" men live on what they've got. If any one were to ask
him how people are to live within their means when they've not got any, he
would reply with the word "bunkum" and clinch the argument with a
grunt. It will be understood that conversation with Mr. Adolf Reiss is not
easy.
* * * * *
 |
| 'Percy': Alfred Sydney Borlase Schiff |
A knock on the door. Mr. Reiss's servant
announces some one and withdraws.
Intuitively Mr. Reiss, who is rather
deaf, and has not caught the name, grasps the paper and hides behind it. From
long experience he has discovered the utility of the newspaper as a sort of
parapet behind which he can better await attack.
A slight figure in khaki advances into
the room, observes the newspaper above the legs and smiles slightly.
"Hello, uncle!" It's a fresh
young voice.
Mr. Reiss grunts, slowly lowers the paper
and gazes at the youth over his eyeglasses.
"Oh, it's you. When did you come
up?"
"Just arrived, uncle. We're ordered
out. I thought I'd look you upat once as there are one or two things——"
"Eh——what?"
Among Mr. Reiss's characteristics is a
disconcerting habit of making people repeat their remarks. This is deliberate
and its purpose twofold——to gain time and to embarrass the person addressed.
The young fellow sits down rather
uncomfortably and begins again——
"We're ordered out, you know——"
"No, I didn't know. How could I? You
never write——"
Mr. Reiss consolidates his defence with
the pretence of a grievance.
"I didn't know myself until
yesterday. They don't give one much time, you know."
"They——who?"
"The War Office people. You see, our
first battalion has had a lot of casualties and three of us subs are being
taken from the third.
We've got to join the day after
to-morrow. Bit of a rush. And I've got things to get. I'm afraid I must ask you
to give me a leg up, uncle. I'm a bit short——"
"Short? Why, you've got an ample
allowance besides your pay and the Government pays for your outfit at an
extravagant rate." Mr. Reiss never ceases denouncing the extravagance of
the Government. He now adjusts his glasses and glowers at the youngster, who
fidgets under the scrutiny. "Yes, I know. I——" he stammers.
"Well——well?"
"The fact is——when Staples, our
captain, went back——he——I——"
A grunt. Then, "Eh——what?"
"He was engaged, you know."
"Well——well?" irritably.
"I can't explain, uncle, if you
don't give me a chance."
Another grunt.
"Jimmie——I mean Staples——wanted to
give his girl a ring before he went back. He hadn't enough money--so I lent him
fifty pounds."
Mr. Reiss drops his glasses, gets up from
his chair, and stands before the fire, facing his nephew.
"So you lent him fifty pounds, did
you? A third of your annual allowance. You had no business to——and if Captain
Whatever's-his-name were a respectable man, he would have saved the money to
pay for the ring.
Instead of that I have to pay for it."
"Oh no, uncle."
"How d'you mean——'no, uncle'? Aren't
you asking me for money? It's always the same story with the lot of you. You
like to be generous at other people's expense. I've told you I'm a ruined man.
The fortune which was the result of my hard work all my life has disappeared.
I'm a poor man. I spend nothing on myself. I've given up my car. I've put down
everything. I'm trying to dispose of my pictures and to sell the lease of this
place. You don't seem to understand what this infernal war means to people like
myself. You don't have to pay for it.
Do you realize that one-third of my
entire income goes for income tax? I've paid your bills over and over again,
but I can't do it any more. For this once I'll——" The boy holds up his
hand.
"Look here, uncle. I'd better tell
you at once. I shall need another fifty to make me square. But I'll pay you
back——on my honour——"
"Bah! Your honour! Pay me back. I
know what that means. So it's a hundred pounds you want. Very well. You shall
have your hundred pounds. But I solemnly warn you that it's the last penny I
intend to pay for your extravagance. As for that waster of a Captain
What's-his——"
The boy flushes to the roots of his
light, wavy hair.
"I say, uncle. He's not a waster.
He's the finest fellow in the regiment. I can't allow you——Look here——never
mind the money. The jeweller knows it's all right. I'd rather——"
He stops. The words won't come. He gazes
at his uncle helplessly. Mr. Reiss goes slowly to the writing-table and sits
down. Taking a blank cheque from a pocket-book he always carries, he fills it
in and passes it to the boy without speaking.
"I don't like taking it, uncle. I
don't, really——" Mr. Reiss half turns round. He still says nothing, he
does not even grunt. He knows that there are times when silence is golden.
Moreover, he knows that money talks.
A few minutes later Mr. Adolf Reiss is
again sitting alone, gazing into the fire. And he has another grievance against
Life.
* * * * *
The philosophy of Mr. Reiss is a natural
result of his early environment. In Magdeburg, where he was born and brought
up, education in business principles is combined with the theory of family
duty. Whether this theory takes the place of affection or not, its application
in the case of Mr. Reiss resulted in his migration at an early age to England, where
he soon found a market for his German industry, his German thriftiness, and his
German astuteness. He established a business and took out naturalization
papers. Until the War came Mr. Reiss was growing richer and richer. His talent
for saving kept pace with his gift for making.
He spent evening after evening, when he
came home from the City, thinking out different ways of tying up his fortune on
Percy, so that it could remain intact as long as possible. Some of his schemes for
insuring the safety of his capital, for the resettlement of the greater part of
the income by trustees——for combining, in fact, a maximum of growing power for
the fortune with a minimum of enjoyment for the heir——were really marvels of
ingenuity.
But since the War his thoughts have taken
a different turn. Half his fortune has gone. He is too old now to catch up
again. It's all over with money-making. The most he can hope for is to keep
"the little
that is left." If only Percy had
been older and had a son, he could settle the money upon his great-nephew. Then
there would have been time for the money to accumulate again.
And now he's gone to the Front. He might
be killed. It doesn't bear thinking about. He has toiled all his life. Surely
after all his self-sacrifice and
self-denial he is not to be robbed of the one satisfaction he asks for, to know
that the beggarly remains of his wealth shall be safe after his own death.
Every day he scans the papers anxiously.
His one preoccupation is the daily casualty list.
* * * * *
Spring is at hand, and though there is
chill in the air Mr. Reiss is economical and sits before an empty grate.
Self-mortification always seems to him to be evidence of moral superiority and
to confirm his right to special grievances. He is reading a letter over again
received that morning from Percy. It bears the stamp of the Base Censor and is
some days old.
DEAR UNCLE ADOLF,
You remember my friend Jimmy Staples——the
one I told you about, who was engaged and I lent that money to? Well, he's been
killed, or rather he has just died of wounds. He has done splendidly. Our
Brigadier had sent in his name for a V.C. I'll tell you all about it when I see
you. But what I wanted to say is that it's all right about the money. I've got
lots in the bank now, and in another couple of months I shall be able to pay
you back. One can't spend anything much out here. I'm quite fit, but I'm rather
in the blues about Jimmy. Mother will give you all my news.
Your affectionate Nephew.
P.S.——By the way, I gave your name as
nearest relative in case of accidents, to save mother.
Mr. Reiss has a curious and unaccustomed
feeling of flatness as he re-reads the letter. Somehow or other he does not
want Percy to pay him back that fifty pounds. He thinks he'll write and tell
him so at
once.
He sits down at the writing-table——the
same one at which he had written the cheque the last time he saw Percy. The
scene comes back to him with a strange vividness as he dips his pen in the ink.
He hesitates a moment before beginning the letter. Was there anything he could
say that would please Percy? He has a curious and at the same time a strong
desire to do something now——at once. He has never felt like this before.
Supposing he were to——A knock on the door. His servant brings in a telegram.
Why do Mr. Reiss's fingers tremble so? Why does Mr. Reiss begin cleaning his
glasses before he opens the envelope?
He holds the pink paper under the lamp.
Deeply regret to inform you....
Mr. Adolf Reiss does not need to read
farther, and now he has a final grievance against Life.
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